Behind the Mask, Behind the Scene
by Virodeil
Summary: The Lord of Mandos also has pastimes, you know. But no! They are not harmful! At least not for himself… sometimes… Well, here are the five of them. Remember: these are only the constant ones! His contemporary pastimes are not recorded here.
1. Introductions

**The game**

The game is named Five Things: Writers' Prompts. This manner of prompt was invented by a group of people in Shurtugal Fan Fiction website, which then became popular when the group opened a club for people interested with the game. Sadly, because the website – consisting of forums and a place to publish writings – is strictly for fans of the Inheritance Cycle series, I cannot channel my fondness of the unique method there if the theme of the prompts is not related to the Inheritance Cycle; therefore, I cannot express prompts for Tolkien's works like this there.

The game, originally, is like this: Person A offers up a prompt – always in the number of five – (say, "Five ways to irritate Murtagh (in IC) or Námo Mandos (in LotR)", then Person B explains the five ways (but the explanation must be more than one sentence) before offering his or her own prompt which the next person (Person C or back to Person A if there are only two people playing) must 'answer' before continuing the line by his or her own idea of the five-things prompt. In the original game, there could also be one other alternative prompt offered in case the next person in line does not like the prompt or has difficulty in figuring it out. The prompt itself could be – five – ways, situations, count of times, places, and so on about one certain character – and sometimes one certain timeline or area.

Now I tweak the game a bit – with profuse apologies to the inventors – to suit this… unique circumstance. The number and requirements in each prompt stay the same, but the length of each piece in every prompt is longer and I play alone – sadly – and so there is no one in line or alternative choice of prompt. If you give me ideas, though, I shall happily oblige the challenge – as long as those ideas do not tamper with my believes and personal views; so just go on and tell me in whatever means of communication you like – E-mail, PM, review, or messenger (mine is at unknown(underscore)aware(at)hotmail(dot)com. The same goes if you wish to ask me questions or if you wish to play with me – I would be very delighted indeed!

**The current prompt: Behind the Mask, Behind the Scene**

**Summary**

The Lord of Mandos also has pastimes, you know. But no! They are not harmful! At least not for himself… sometimes… Well, here are the five of them. Remember: these are only the constant ones! His contemporary pastimes are not recorded here. ;)

**Of the Prompt**

In this prompt, five pastimes of Námo are shown; there are perhaps more, but since the game only consists of five pieces, I shall abide by it. However, if there was anyone asking for more… ;)

My original character(s) from one of my stories might appear here. You will notice him or her – or them – right away. I hope you would forgive me for using the person/people; I cannot resist the temptation! LOL But do not worry, none of the characters are Mary Sues (or Gary Stues)… or so I hope.

The timeline, if there is any, is given before each part of the five pieces; all pieces, however, are not closely connected in this regard. The rating is due to some strange (perhaps a little disturbing) scenes or events throughout the pieces (or some of them). You cannot help the appearance of such things when you are writing about the interests of the Lord of the Dead! Just thank Eru that he is not the Lord of the Underworld too. :D

And, considering the hard time I will be put into writing those… uncharacteristic… things, I apologise that the updates are not going to be as quick as what happened in the previous prompt. Besides, I have truly neglected my other stories – although I still have some time before having to worry about my undergraduate essay again.

(Note: The first piece of the prompt is three-quarter ready by the time this introductory explanation is available online. Be patient, please…)

**Guide for Dialogues**

"…(Valarin speech, spoken aloud…"

`…(mind speech)…`

+…(Quenya, if used)…+

^…(Sindarin, if used)…^

**Previous Prompt**

1. My Heart Lies Where My Eyes Alight (five best features of Ilmarin, the mansion of Manwë and Varda, according to the two Valar; available in the Silmarillion section in the (fan fiction) book category in this site)


	2. 1: My Dear Weaving Beauty

Notes:

The complete title is: **My Dear Weaving Beauty: Punish Me As You Wish**. (LOL It is actually not as sarcastic as the title suggests)

Regarding a name used here: I am not versed in Sindarin or Quenya or any other languages of Arda, so my knowledge of names is limited too. I apologise if the name Fíriel here does not sound Maiar-like; and neither is it related to the reborn Míriel Þerendë.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

`Umm… Vairë?`

The Lord of Mandos, whom the Elves had so feared, had always been so unruffled… except for now, as he was standing – fighting not to shift like a naughty Elfling caught red-hand in a mischief – before his spous' wrath. Foolish, foolish, he berated himself. Why had he replaced that thread spool with another colour? But the notion had been so tempting, especially since she had ignored him for nearly an age of the Trees for the sake of her tapestries…

Well, he was paying for the act of impulsive childishness he had committed, anyway. The Weaver of the Stories of Arda was hovering before him in her spiritual form, her indigo aura darkening into almost purple. She looked ugly this way, and… truthfully… frightening too.

`If not for Fíriel's quick reflexes, that particular tapestry would have been ruined!` Vairë shrieked. Námo winced and allowed himself – finally – to shrink away, his light grey aura turning several different shades of colours in his nervousness. `You should have known better not to medal with something which portents a great effect! Would you let me harass those fëar in your care?`

`Hey! Leave them out of this!` Námo struck back automatically in defense of the souls in his halls, becoming angry himself. He realised belatedly that he had been lured into a kind of trap.

`You see? We have our own domains which are important in their own rights and should not be medalled.`

Námo could easily picture his spous narrowing her eyes at him upon hearing the frown in her tone…. Well, and a smug look too.

`Well, it did not happen,` he said at last, a little lamely, having no other things to say to save himself from this predicament he had plunged into unwittingly. `What would you do to me now? There was no problem arising because that beloved Maia of yours had saved the day… perhaps literally… and so—`

`Now is for your punishment,` Vairë pronounced slowly, calmly. A frisson of mixed fear and morbid fascination worked all over Námo's fëa. His spous'… punishments… were often inventive and would make the most recalcitrant Ainu or younger Children bend down on their knees – figuratively or literally. He was often feared for the dooms and prophecies he pronounced and for his dark appearance, but few knew of this… feral… streak of his beloved spous – and those who had known of it usually held her with the same awe, or more, as they did to the Doomsman of Arda.

Secretly, however, even without half his knowledge of it, he liked this 'game' – of angering the Weaver and receiving her punishment. There was always a kind of thrill accompanying such moments, including what he experienced now.

But it did not mean that he liked the punishment delivered to him.

`What?! Woven into your tapestry?!`

`For one week, in my workshop, you are going to be hung in that tapestry,` Vairë reiterated, her aura turning lavender in amusement – bordering in glee. `No one would notice you there unless you spoke to the person.`

One other trait of hers was that she was wont to deliver justice of the poetic kind.

Well, and no one escaped from her grip afterwards.

Still, though, there was no harm in trying – at least it was what was in Námo's mind when he transported himself away to somewhere secluded in Valinor, fleeing her loom and yarns.

It took a day full for Vairë to recapture him. By then they had 'visited' every nook and cranny of the blessed continent and the Valië was greatly irritated… It was not a good sign for the dejected Vala.

`My love…` Námo pleaded meekly as his spous began to work on her loom. He was held by her will, hovvering above the crossbar of the wooden structure as the interwoven multicolour web of threads made their way up as one solid, beautiful piece of cloth. The taut vertical lines of threads, through which the horizontal ones worked their way up, clung to Námo relentlessly, but there was a sense of familiarity in them, somehow…

`What thing are this threads made of, Vairë?` he asked, nervous because of the familiar sense and the cloth forming on the lower part of his fëa. (Truly! It felt like being sipped into a quickmire…)

Vairë did not answer him quickly. When she did – after the tapestry was half-wrought – the awaited words were not direct to the point too: `Can you not guess what part of my incarnate form the yarns remind you of?`

`That is what I was asking,` Námo thought irritatedly to himself. But he could not dwell in it for long. The web of coloured thin strings had reached three-quarter of his fëa. He could not help but whimper in primal horror, the fear of being trapped and could go nowhere. Vairë seemed to soften up for a moment, yet then she finished the tapestry and, as promised, hung the Vala-inserted piece of cloth on a patch of blank wall in her workshop, opposite her desk. (Why she kept a writing desk among the chests of spools and rows of looms, Námo did not know and partly did not want to now.)

The Vala did not spend his days idly. He was forming a plot to retaliate to his spous for this wicked punishment. Unbeknownst to him, he looked and sounded much alike the fallen Melkor at that time. And indeed, the thought about the fallen Vala came to his mind during a particularly boring day in the workshop – while Vairë was chattering happily with her maidens about news from outside world, both significant and trifial. `I wish I knew of this kind of prison before. If so, Melkor would have a much more deserving place to be in and perhaps he would rue himself afterwards.`

He said as much when Vairë at last released him, and what he got was a threat to be imprisoned once more in the tapestry if she heard such thought again from him. She did provide him a reason, though: `The yarns are too special or him or his like. Besides, I do not deign to see his face before me for the duration of the weaving.`

Námo was disappointed. Albeit, Vairë already had a cure for it – and perhaps for his imprisonment and the time they had not spent together too. They cuddled to each other contentedly for many long days of the Trees in a beautiful, romantic nook in the widerlands of Valinor, leaving their respective Maiar to tend to the halls – of the dead – and the workshop – on their own, coming to their rescue only when needed.

It did not mean that Námo had forgotten about his retaliation, nevertheless.

In the end of their 'renewed honeymoon', he set up to task directly – much to his Maiar's amusement. Before the day had ended, there was a lifelike painting of Vairë, in a casual but elegant gown, munching on an apple in a sunlit flower-strewn clearing, seated languidly on a picnic blanket with her back leaning to the trunk of an apple tree and her head wreathed with apple blossoms, hung in the main hall of Mandos for all to see – dead or alive, Ainur or younger Children. The piece was warded so that no one but himself could take it down and no one – even himself – could destroy it.

Vairë's scream, when her eyes landed on it in her visit, rivaled that of the enraged, maddened Melkor.

The dead fëar of the Elves, who had been admiring the painting or ignoring it for a play around the hall with fellow fëar or some willing Maiar, fled. The Maiar followed right afterwards (in fact, many of them helped the souls of the Firstborn to safety), leaving their lord to fend for himself.

And he did, by way of words and quick reflexes of evading her capture, but it came to naught in the end – as he had suspected.

For the next one month of the Trees, the entrance hall of Ilmarin, the mansion of Manwë and Varda, had an additional illumination – and decoration, to an extent. A large crystal lamp hung on the middle of it, suspended on a short metal support carved with intricate designs. The lamp attracted the many visitors to the abode of the Eldar King and the Star Kindler… for some bizarre reasons – or at least it was so for the Firstborn and the few unsuspecting Maiar. It would glow a menacing red when Vairë walked under it, dim – with longing or perhaps petulance – when one of the other Valar walked by, and glare brilliant white – worse than the red, in a way – when one of the visiting Firstborn spoke badly about the Lord of Mandos. Vairë would smiled – outwardly – and laughed gleefully – inwardly – when the lamp blared red on her; her fellow Valar and Valier just shook their heads ever so slightly and smiled in amusement to themselves; while the Children… well, the offending name-callers never mocked the Doomsman of Arda anymore afterwards, by a… strange… coincidence.


	3. 2: Come Here, Fishy

"All settled?"

"Yes, my lord. Eöl's tantrum has subsided; he has been put to rest, and the quarreling Secondborn as well."

"Good." And with that the Lord of Mandos vanished from his infamous halls. Morinehtar, his chief Maia, seldom saw the Doomsman of Arda so blissfully contented.

That afternoon, a tiny nook on the western edge of Tol Eressëa, which was naturally impossible to reach due to its surrounding sharp-rock cliffs, was suddenly occupied. An Elf – or one that looked like an Elf – sat on the sand-cushioned alcove equipped with a ready-to-use fishing rod and a box of baits – comprising dead old insects the… Elf… had collected earlier in Lórien. Anar – or Vasa, if it was a proud Ñoldo who spoke – shone brilliantly down on him and the tiny nook he was ensconced in, as though celebrating his being there.

"An outing, little brother?" The head and shoulders of another Elf appeared farther in the sea amidst the glittering waves. The Elf on the little beach looked up from attaching a bait to the hook of his fishing rod and grinned jovially. Chuckling, the latter drew to the island and climbed up to his side, bestowing him an affectionate kiss on the brow.

"No one bothered you, Námo?" The fishing rod was pried gently from his hands and the not-so-alike Elf found himself perched snuggly on the newcomer's lap and in the latter's arms.

"All have been sorted out," Námo answered curtly, grumbling with irritation to the sudden question, from the temporary resting place of his head on one strong, broad shoulder. Ulmo smiled down at him in understanding, drawing a rueful sigh from the more silent, reserved Vala. They stayed like that for some time, neither willing to move or break the companionable silence that had fallen between them.

But eventually the cerenity was broken, and the culprits were a group of dolphins chorusing in their crooning, whistling language in laughter. Námo scowled at the offending sea creatures and wiggled free from Ulmo's firm embrace. The Lord of the Waters chuckled at his muttered curses. "Do not take hard their jest, little brother. You are seldom seen here; they are rejoicing for you."

"Like I had never come here…" Námo grumbled. He took his fishing rod and flung its hooked string over to the water. He had no need for the fish that he might catch, yet still he enjoyed the time when a flapping hapless fish was drawn up from its salty, watery home. "You yourself seldom come here in your corporeal form. What brought you here?"

Ulmo grinned. "Morinehtar informed me, just like I instructed him to."

Námo frowned in mock displeasure. "I have a traitor among my own people. Who knows that one so faithful such as he could do so?"

Ulmo's grin widened. "But the reason of his obeying my instruction must be because he was concerned for your well-being, little brother. Come on… You take everything too seriously when there is nothing to worry about."

"Stated by one who always finds a reason or a way to worry about everything and tweak everything to his fancy."

Knock!

"Ow! What is it for?" Námo rubbed his temple with a hand. Ulmo just smirked.

Their banters continued for some time. At length, though, Námo noticed an anomaly.

The spot he was ensconced usually teemed with fish, since there were holes and small caves under the formation of rocks that were good hiding places for them. He had always found a fish hooked before long…

Why not now?

He narrowed his eyes at Ulmo's feet which were buried under the waves. "My fish fled from your feet, big brother," he half-whined. Ulmo's knuckles visited his temple again.

"They are not interested with my feet, and neither are they avoiding them. I advise you to choose better baits next time. I suppose those fish do not like the insects."

"'Tis not your doing?"

Námo scooted away, bringing the unproductive fishing rod with him, avoiding another strike from Ulmo. "You spoil the fun, brother."

Ulmo grinned enigmatically. Uinen's giggles sounded in is head, impish and gleeful. The Maia had been guiding the little sea creatures away from Námo's bait without showing up herself. Námo needed to be less serious, she had argued, and Ulmo had agreed.

"Should we not just swim, brother? The water is cool and soothing," relenting to the moody look on the younger Vala's countenance, Ulmo suggested. He did not wait for an answer. Námo found himself flying – literally – to the water not half a minute later, courtecy of Ulmo's body-flinging skill. The Lord of Waters apparently saw an opportunity in his casual attire – just a light tunic and a pair of leggings – which would indeed not hinder him while in the water. But it did not mean said Vala was pleased at all…

"ULMO!"

Splash!

Blup… Blup…

"Bah! Deranged brother," Námo cursed when his head broke the surface. Ulmo laughed merrily. In the next second, he was simply not there, leaving Námo to his own devises.

"Time for a hunt," Námo growled under his breath. He dove into the salt water, willing his body to be able to breathe underwater in the meantime, and began his intended pursuit.

One Maia… Two Maiar… Three Maiar… Four Maiar…

He swam silently behind a towering underwater plantlife-invested monolith. His target was hovering on the other side, intent on coaxing some oisters to quickly produce pearls for the Teleri's use. A shooting propelling motion to the side and around—

Fourteenth. But she had had a chance to shriek her surprise before he managed to freeze her over.

That attracted attention, as he had both feared and hoped. A Maia, his last victim's spouse, hunted him down.

That hapless Maia soon became the hunted.

Fifteenth…

Fifteen frozen Maiar trapped within a fisherman's net, which was about to be rolled up.

But in the end, only one got rolled up in the fishing net: himself. Fifteen Maiar glared at him with some measure of smugness, having just been freed by their exasperated-but-amused lord and gathered into said lord's embrace.

The Teleri in the fishing boat were surprised and bemused, seeing that they had captured an angrily-chirping dolphin in their net. Well, but they did not eat dolphins, so they set it free again. Oddly, it did not quickly shoot away from their boat, but rather went under it and… chased some unseen thing.

All the while, the waves rolled and rumbled in merriment.

* * *

Author's Rambling:

Fresh from the oven! Well, the thing had been sitting in my computer for a long, long time, slowly added up, but I got the ending only now. I wish my muse deigned to inspire me at a better time, though. I was already ensconced in my blanket and ready to struggle myself to sleep! Well, but I have got to thank her now, because without it this chapter would still be languishing in my folder. All hail my muse! *cheer*


End file.
